A Black Heart
by Emriel
Summary: Harry is a prince with snow white skin, enchanting green eyes, lips as rosy red as blood, and ebon black hair. He is the fairest of them all. He lives in a castle with his step father who wants his heart. Or. Harry Potter as Snow White. Dark and Disturbing. HP/All


**Author's Note: **Here's a change of style. I wanted to write a dark fair tale :3 Credits to the Brother's Grimm's version of the tale for some of the lines on this story.

* * *

Once upon a time, in the middle of winter, the snowflakes were falling ever so slowly, blanketing the land in serene white. At a castle window framed in ebony sat a young Queen with dark red hair. Whilst working at her embroidery, she would gaze in the distance. The sun began to sink in the horizon, casting gloomy shadows around the walls that guarded her Kingdom.

And then she pricked her finger and three little drops fell upon the snow. And because the color of red looked so beautiful against the white snow, she thought to herself, 'Oh, if I only had a child as white as snow, as rosy red as blood, with hair as ebon black as his father's hair!'

Soon, perhaps not even a year after, her hand came to rest on her rotund belly. Growing somewhere inside her body was hope, one whose laughter Lily Potter longed to hear, to fill the emptiness of her chamber whilst her other half was busy fighting monsters, taming dragons and seeking life's greatest adventure.

She whispered stories to the growing baby, "Your father is a hero who is beloved by our people. He built this castle and made me his Queen. He is away now, but he sends me tales of golden sand, high waters, and earthen dwellers. When you are old enough, I'll read them to you… Your father will come home someday, and while waiting for him, you and I will protect this home. If you're born a girl, I will dress you with the most lavish dresses, and curl your hair just like mine. If you're boy, I hope you'll grow up like James but never stray from my side."

And when the child was born, to Lily's delight, it was a baby boy—a darling prince that could have been mistaken for a girl with his delicate lashes, bright green eyes, lips rosy red, and skin so fine and fair.

But when the child was born, James Potter died from an arrow to his chest, and within a year, the Queen was forced to marry another. A man who goes by the name Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The new King was of unknown descent, but he was many things to all who were lucky enough to know him. A scholar, a poet, a strategist, a beauty, and a charmer who caused maidens to put up their skirts, and slather rouge on their cheeks. The Kingdom who suffered from a sickly Queen was brought back to its feet by a King so cunning, who with quiet confidence put a stop at vultures from picking apart the scraggly remains of a broken home, and tempered it to become an envy whose tales began to reach faraway lands.

* * *

The Queen was happy for she found a friend instead of a man who sought to fill her with seed to birth their kin. Tom was a quiet friend who listened to her woes and made her feel young again, like a child.

The scent of lilies permeated her room, and she smiled when she remembered how James would give her the very same flowers, even sneaking into her room in the neighboring Kingdom half past midnight, asking her again and again, unwaveringly for her hand in marriage. Oh, if only she knew what rabbit hole she was falling for.

Now, only a friend sought to keep her happy, filling her room with the cloying scent of lilies so she could not smell the rot that had begun to fester around her. Dead fish left too long to lie.

Every night, Tom was her phantom, listening to her quiet sigh. He was unbothered by the ugly, and looked upon her like she was still human when not even her own child could muster a smile.

Tom was her only companion.

And just like any night, he would hand her a cup of gold overflowing with poison, not that she knew, and not that she cared. The Queen knew she was dying, like a slowly wilting flower who missed the warmth of the sun. Her eyes were no longer green but gray from blindness, hair white instead of scarlet. Muscles limp from disuse, and lips so chapped, it was bleeding, and yet she would utter his name, "James…"

"James…?"

Tom took her hand, kissing her knuckles and spoke, "James will see you in your dreams, precious. He is there waiting for you, so sleep, Lily…"

Often times, Lily would follow his advice and she would be out like feather, but tonight, her eyes were fixed upon the blurry shadow of Tom's form. She raised a hand, stroking the hand of her friend and bid him, "I do not have long… Take care of Harry, my darling child. Promise me that no harm will come to him. Promise me…"

But the Queen heard no reply, and only felt empty space as a hand left hers. "Tom?" There was a croak in that voice. "Tom?... Where did you go? Will you please promise me…?" Her voice grew weaker, like the sound of cloth shuffling. Muted. It choked when the breeze blew in. The window was open and the King looked out, holding his hand for the snowflakes, admiring its snow white beauty.

Behind him came the sound of dying creature, unable to take the slightest cold as coughs wracked her body. It was a delicate symphony that only ended in silence.

The King smiled and closed the window. With a wave of his hand, all lights have gone out.

"Goodnight, Lily."

* * *

The King's only wish in life was to seek power and eternal life. He had a mirror, a magical one and when he looked upon it, he would say, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the most powerful one of all?"

And the mirror would reply, "Oh King, you are the most powerful in the land."

With this the King was well content for he knew the mirror can only speak of the truth. "And what of the boy that you say would one day be my equal?"

From the mirror, a figure was slowly revealed, the alluring sight of the child who was blessed by the gods to have unmatched beauty. The sun threw in rays of light, casting a glow upon the young boy's face. He sat upon a bed of flowers with birds singing in gaiety around him. All manner of forest folk came like stags, bunnies, wolves, and butterflies, and upon his head was a crown of flowers. This innocent child who knew nothing of the horrors that surrounded their Kingdom, whose mother's love protected him from the worst the world has to offer. This was his equal.

"Harry Riddle is still a budding flower. If the King can wait for a few years' time, the boy's heart will be ripe for the picking."

"I have already waited for nine years."

The mirror shimmered and began to show a small girl, with golden hair and eyes moist with tears. She spoke to him, "I urge you not to consume his heart for he is but an innocent child who needs you as his father, my King. You have always consumed the worst of hearts… Why desire something so pure? It is unwise to kill him, for you do not know of his power—"

"Then I will corrupt his heart, if that is what you require."

"You misunderstand, my King! Please listen—"

Lord Voldemort turned his back, and once again the mirror was covered with a dark curtain. With nary a thought, he was upon his black Stallion, the Walpurgis Knights at his heels. Together, the sound of their hooves echoed upon dry soil as they kicked dust with their haste.

Tom took his crop, whipping his horse to go faster, not stopping to greet his people who bowed before him. The massive castle gates were lowered.

They rode for the Black Forest, a looming shroud of dark green into the distance. The King thought he should have it burned, so no more would his child be tempted by its foul creatures and be lured away from the safety of his castle.

* * *

Winter was over, and the land was no longer downcast with long nights and starch whiteness. No longer did he need to wear thick coats. His boots would not trudge against muddied slush. The coming of spring brought blossoming flowers, green grass, blue skies, and life as the animals come out to play.

Harry's body splayed upon the flowers much like a starfish and around him were creatures, who only wished to keep him company. Beneath the canopy of forest trees, the shadows crept like it was alive. But every so often, the light and the warmth of the sun seeped through, just like in this alcove he found where a wide gap in the middle welcomed the skies.

The scent of pine and flowers comforted him. His mother would bring him into the forest as a child to read him tales of James Potter's adventures. And perhaps it was because of those stories that when he was five, many a time, he wandered in the woods, in search of a stag with golden antlers, just as his mother described James.

But he saw none of that, and for some time he wondered if those stories were real, or if they were embellished by his mother's desire to see a ghost.

And now, even his mother was gone. He would never again smell the sweet scent of cinnamon and butter for breakfast, or be gifted the occasional flawed cake on his birthday. He would not feel warm hands shake him awake for lessons, or wake up to see all his toys were rearranged and put away in their place. The servants never got it right. And as he thought of all that he shared with her, he whimpered. Remembering her felt like his hands were sifting through crumbling piles of leaves, just like the ones around him, because from the moment her health declined, his mother changed.

And Harry, even though he was too young to understand it, knew something was wrong. For the last time he saw her, she looked at him with silent accusation and kept the door to her room locked for the past year. He hoped one day she would let him in but no matter how many times he knocked on the white door, there was no answer.

Only his step-father was allowed in. Even during the funeral, the King covered his eyes, telling him "not to look" and try as he might, he could not pry away those fingers, let alone see where they took her. The bells kept ringing, for the people mourned the loss of their Queen. It rang like a wailing baby, drowning out the screams that came from his own throat.

Harry asked around at night, talking to the servants who pointed to the north of the castle, there sits a barren hill. When his step-father was busy inside his chambers, staring at a mirror while being fitted another set of mourning robes, he snuck out and found his mother's coffin laid to rest, alone on top of a hill, higher than the rooftops of their castle, overlooking the lake.

It was during twilight, and against the light of the moon, he saw the rotting corpse. Harry was aghast and thought 'That is not my mother.'

So he ran away despite only wearing his white nightclothes, because anything was better than the sight of dead stranger's body, or the cold castle walls. He soon found himself in the forest which sang to him a hundred lullabies in different tongues.

In the dark of the Black Forest, he was guided by fireflies, until he found his precious alcove where a wolf offered its pelt as a pillow, where birds made a nest of flowers upon his head, and where silence was still filled with sounds of wildlife and the rustling of leaves, not the empty ringing in his room.

A fist closed around the leaves, and Harry tried to smile. Beside him, a bunny pressed closer to his neck, and Harry's small hands began petting it.

His lashes lowered as he slept. He could hear them pleading.

"Stay in the forest child for you are safe here."

* * *

And yet, when the cold night air began seep through his clothes, Harry stirred from the sound of horses trotting. Metal clinking against metal. The sound of a violent stab against wood, angry voices and the pained cries of animals were all around him.

The prince woke to a nightmare of his friends being slaughtered by the Walpurgis Knights. He then saw the King's slowly approaching form. Black leather boots stopped inches before the red grass. This monster against the night sky came closer and closer, towering above him and Harry remained frozen as he looked up to eerie red eyes and his step-father's disappointed face. Try as he might, he could not move and lay like a ragdoll waiting for the first blow.

The King knelt next to him and asked, "Harry, do you know what you've done? My poor precious child…"

"I… I had to… I couldn't stay… not when mother is..."

And Harry heard the yowl of the wolf whose paw was stabbed with an arrow. Horrified green eyes looked around with unshed tears. He then found his voice, pleading mercy as tears began, "Please, don't hurt them. They're harmless. It's my fault for running away. Stop it… please. Father…"

The King brushed away his tears, before signaling to his knights with raised a hand, and those with bows stopped shooting. The animals ran away, and the wolf left Harry one forlorn glance before limping into the darkness. Some who tried to fight were quickly slaughtered, leaving a wake of muddy red.

Harry closed his eyes, unable to stomach the gore. As a prince, he never condoned violence. There was no point to killing off the animals but he knew he brought it upon himself and upon them.

"You're cold aren't you?" Came the silky baritone voice.

Harry nodded quietly and the King unfastened his black cloak and wrapped it around his shivering child. Carefully, the King carried Harry in his arms and settled him upon his stallion. As Harry felt the cold leather upon his thighs, his breath started quickening, and a hand furiously wiped the tears.

The black cloak did nothing to stop his trembling fingers.

He sat there, trying to swallow bile as cold sweat gathered at his palms. He waited for his father to mount behind him, and he steadied his hands on the horse's mane, but his mind's eye was already imagining how many lashes it would take to satisfy the King's anger and how long he'd have to kneel before this was forgiven.

The king's warmth was alien, especially when arms settled upon Harry's shoulders. And soon, Harry realized, it was a hug. A short one. It was the first time he'd been hugged by his step-father.

When a hand settled upon his smaller one, there was quiet threat, whispered upon his ear. "The next time you run away, I will burn everything in search of you. I've already lost your mother. I cannot lose you too."

Harry sniffled and bowed his head down, "I'm sorry. I'm really… sorry, father. Please… forgive me. It will never happen again."

The King leaned back but not before settling his hand upon Harry's head, petting him like he would pet a cat, "See to it that it doesn't."

Behind them, one knight shot a flaming arrow to the foliage. The forest floor, as if aided by horrifying magic, burned green and cinders flew in the air. The fire flitted through horrified green eyes, but not a word escaped Harry's throat for fear that the King might do something much worse.

The King turned around his horse and with a satisfied smile plastered on his face, his cold voice called to his knights, "To the castle."

* * *

The years flowed on, and all this time Harry was growing up–and growing more beautiful each year besides. Many have asked for his hand in marriage. Women, men and creature alike but the King always replied, "I will consider it." But he never did.

When Harry was twelve years old, the boy was as fair as the day, and his admirers grew in number. Even his followers spoke of the boy with much love. They likened the prince to an angel that could do no harm.

Alarmed, the King stood in front of his mirror and said, "Mirror, mirror, who is the most powerful one of them all?"

And this time, the mirror answered,

"My King, your power is wicked and rare, but your son, prince Harry, who is beloved by all, is a thousand times more powerful than you can ever be."

At this, the King hissed in frustration. The King did not believe in love, but knew of its powers. It caused empires to fall to ruin and it caused miracles to happen even at the darkest hour.

"The power of love?" He smashed a fist against the mirror, and watched it crack and repair itself.

Whenever he saw the boy, his heart grew green with envy and lust. That was how much he coveted the boy's power, and it was said that if he consumed his heart, the power would be his. These feelings grew in the King's heart until he had no peace day and night.

The King only had eyes for this fair child. The mirror told him the boy would continue to flourish, and if he was patient, the more gratifying it could be to consume him. He waited, and he kept the pretense of a caring father, caring for the boy like a beloved rose. Watering it, until the petals were bright red, so he could pluck it, and preserve it and make it part of his collection.

* * *

Underneath the castle was a secret. Not even his Knights knew of these hallowed chambers, and those that did never again saw the light of day. He descended from a long winding staircase. On the bottom sat a door which only opened to those who knew the language of the snakes.

Statues of serpents stared at him from either side, likely the work of his forefathers. The snakes he kept as pets hissed at him in greeting, and their caretaker, a useless rat of a man cowering behind one of the snake statues, greeted him too with his voice quaking in fear, "W-welcome home, master."

At some point, the brick walls transitioned into the uneven rock of the adjoining cave.

Within these chambers sat his potion lab. Upon one of its shelves was a dusty old book.

The King swiped a finger across brown speckled dust and it revealed its rusty bronze cover. Tom Marvolo Riddle blew it away and used his magic to clean his hands._ Moste Potente Potions_. He lay it upon the wooden table and caressed the tattered pages with a fond look. He recalled a time when there was a store that sold these books, but that was long gone.

On the sixtieth page was an age old favorite, one that caused his birth upon this sordid world. The potion that maimed his emotions to a point where he was filled with only rage and emptiness.

With a snap of his fingers, the lanterns lit up, and a cauldron was soon filled with rose water as it sat upon a flickering flame.

He called forth the ratty old box from a glass drawer beside his library of books, and it landed beside his table. From within, he scooped two ashwinder eggs, cracking it open and letting the contents mix. He then began the process of grinding the moonstone to fine dust.

As he worked on the potion and it took in a golden glow, he was unsurprised to smell the sweet scent of the boy's own sweat for he knew at this point, he desired no other.

Obsession was familiar to him, but to a child who has never ever been kissed before, it would be a tempest. On the boy's thirteenth birthday, he planned to give this as the first of the many gifts, to see how much he can turn the boy's pure white heart into black until it was time to consume it.


End file.
